


Of All Trades

by kita (thekita)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-24
Updated: 2008-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:23:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekita/pseuds/kita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate working title was ‘Five Shags for Ianto’. Each of which are, to varying degrees, somehow about Jack. So, uhm, Ianto takes <s>one for</s> the team?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of All Trades

**Author's Note:**

> _Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau_ is the National Anthem of Wales, and translates to "Land of My Fathers."

i. Comfort Food (set post-Countrycide)  
Ianto/Tosh

  
 _Ianto is on his knees._

Her thoughts are so loud, she wonders for a moment if Ianto can hear them. He doesn’t pause, slipping off her shoes and stockings, tucking them neatly under her bed.

His hands are gentle, efficient. Large. She never noticed before. She’s seen him hold fragile china and angry Weevils, but she never thought about his hands, until they were tied behind his back.

She’d like to sit up and help him now, except her thoughts are loud and her own hands are floating away and the rest of her body feels terribly small. She has no tolerance for pain medication.

“Let me,” Ianto says.

She nods, sinking back into the pillows. He undresses her as though she were a doll (corpse), carefully not looking at her face. He’s trying to be a gentleman.

It makes her wants to cry.

“I didn’t think about you,” she says, while he folds her skirt over a bedside chair.

“What?”

“When I was running to get away. I didn’t think about you still back at that house. If they were hurting you, or if you were already dead. I didn’t think about you at all. The only thing I thought of was getting away.”

“Tosh-“

“No,” she says, trying to sit up again. She is crying now, her eyes and nose leaking all over her blouse. Her head is on too tight. Every time she blinks, she sees him with a bag over his head. The pain medication didn’t help that.

Rubbing at her cheeks, she stares hard, watching the shadows across his face. He doesn’t look away this time, and in the half-light, his eyes flicker, the colors of fire and bruise.

She thinks today was the first time she’s seen him without a tie. Even in the shelter of her room, it’s like catching him out of uniform. He looks vulnerable, exposed (tender).

“Don’t say it’s okay,” she tells him. “Because it’s not. I never knew, I never even thought that human beings could be so- monstrous. I mean, did you?”

“Yes”, he says, in a voice as steady as his hands.

And Tosh thinks of non-human girlfriends hidden in basements, and human bosses who order you to kill them. She thinks of Jack with his gun pressed to Ianto’s head, and she thinks of Jack with his lips pressed to that same spot.

She’s pretty sure she was never meant to see their affection, they’re far more comfortable putting their violence on display.

Like lies and dead lovers, they will never talk about it.

Ianto stands over her, tall and unmoving, and she reaches out, touching the yellowing mark on his face. He doesn’t flinch or pull away. There’s a shallow cut on his throat that could be from shaving, but isn’t. She wonders if she’ll ever get the stench of rotting flesh out of her hair.

When she leans in to kiss him, she can taste his blood.

His tongue is thick and greedy in her mouth when he kisses her back, like a man who’d thought he was going to die.

He presses her to the mattress, crawls down between her legs. His fingers press into sensitive skin as he spreads her thighs, tossing her panties to the floor. He doesn’t bother to take off her shirt.

The sheets are cool against her bottom; she shivers when he bends his head and breathes out. Just a single puff of warm air across where she is already wet for him. Then, the flat of his tongue along her clit, and he groans.

It’s a low, grateful, wounded sound.

She wraps her legs around his shoulders, pulls him closer.

His razor stubble burns the inside of her thighs, she can feel the hint of his teeth at her cunt. When she arches toward him, he slips three fingers inside of her all at once.

He has such big hands.

She turns her head, meaning to muffle the noises she makes in the pillows, but he stops what he’s doing to whisper, “Don’t.”

Then he spreads her wider and fucks her harder, hands and breath making her scream, making her real. She clutches at his neck while he (eats) her, and she can feel the thud of his pulse. When she finally comes, all over his fingers and his bruised cheeks, every pound of heartbeat, every ache of muscle screams _alive alive alive._

After, she can taste herself in his mouth, as he lays beside her and she kisses him again, biting at his swollen lips, stroking his cock with a slow, ungentle fist.

He keeps his eyes open when he comes.

 _Alive._

She’s already dancing the edges of sleep when Ianto tucks the sheets around her, and makes his way into her kitchen. She closes her eyes to the sound of the tea kettle, whistling to her in the dark.

\---

ii. Favored Children (set summer post S1)  
Ianto/Gwen

  
 _Ianto is on his knees._

Once upon a time, she thinks, this would have been strange, would have been (alien). Then came rain on rooftops, and rips through the center of Cardiff, through the center of her.

And now it hardly seems strange at all, to be here, drunk and naked, swaying a little on her feet. Looking down between her own legs at leather straps and unfamiliar, hard, sparkly bits- and giggling only at the sparkly of it.

Ianto isn't laughing; his eyes are shut and he’s breathing fast, his cheeks and mouth as pink and shining as her plastic parts, his open lips wet with Scotch and spit. He leans forward slowly, like he’s catching those same raindrops on his tongue, and presses a kiss to her inner thigh.

She shivers, curling her toes into the carpet.

He looks up at her just then, his smile familiar and distant as starlight. His waist coat is gone, tie loose around his neck. The top button on his shirt collar is open. Only Ianto could make a single undone button look practically naked.

He’s lovely on his knees.

He swirls the tip of his tongue (pink, so pink, candy hearts and girl ribbons, innocence and things Gwen has lost) down the length of her fake cock. Sucks the thing deep into his mouth until his cheeks bulge with it. He’s humming some sort of tune.

 _Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau_ she realizes, and oh, that makes her giggle again, makes her want to sway into him, sink down into his lap and- the floor seems very far away.

Ianto’s hands on her hips are strong and steadying, they hold her in place, they keep her upright. She thinks of the way he holds his gun, and she wonders for a moment who taught him how to shoot. She already knows who taught him how to kill.

When she looks down at him, she can count each of his lashes.

“Are you certain about this?” he asks.

Which makes her want to laugh, because the time for that question was before they snuck down into Jack’s rooms, before they broke the lock on his liquor cabinet and drank ¾ of his most expensive, before they opened the box of toys (unlocked) beneath his bed.

“Yes, very very,” she says instead, tugging Ianto to his feet. She can feel his cock against her belly when he leans in to kiss her. Beneath the wool of his trousers, it is hard, solid. Real.

(But his breath is plasticine and alcohol: what do robot’s kisses taste like?)

“Are you?” she asks, licking his neck, where the flavor is warm and alive with heat. “Certain, I mean?”

She pulls back just enough to see his face, flushed and hopeful, a blurry watercolor of desire. Only his eyes are clear and cloudless blue, and maybe her friend Ianto is not so drunk after all.

“Very very,” he repeats, guiding her hand to his fly.

He lies naked and spread beneath her on Jack’s bed, his back a pale curve of muscle and moonlight. His cheek is pressed to the cotton pillow, mouth half-way open, eyes half-way closed, and the _sounds_ he makes.

Sounds with teeth and claws, and she is doing this, she is forcing those noises from him; she is opening him up so they pour out, making him take everything she shoves inside of him to take their place.

The idea that she could **do** this, that he would let her, that he would **want** her to, is enough to make her wish this dick between her thighs was real. Wish she could feel more of him than just the wet hot slippery slick where her clit rubs against the curve of his ass, than just the press of fake parts full to bursting inside of her cunt. But it’s the sight of him shamelessly stroking himself off that makes her come too fast, so maybe it’s actually a good thing this dick isn’t real.

She knocks his hand away, feels his cock jump in her fist. Holds him still now with her other hand around his hip, steady, strong enough to leave marks that promise the morning.

She fucks him hard enough to make him beg.

He comes covered in sweat, hair sticking to his cheeks, collapsing against the sheets and into her hands like he has survived a storm.

She lies there on top of him for a while, rubbing her breasts against the bumps of his spine.

“Do you sleep in here?” she asks, soft words on damp skin. He shivers, and for a moment, she thinks he will not answer.

Then, “Sometimes.”

She breathes out, shuts her eyes. “Can I stay with you- just for tonight?”

He turns over, pulls her against his chest, pulls the covers up over them both. The blanket is dirty, and it smells like sex. She hopes Ianto will forget to change it.

He wraps his arms around her. “You can stay as long as you want,” he says.

\----

iii. Accidental Tourist (set post Kiss Kiss Bang Bang)  
Ianto/John

  
 _Ianto is on his knees._

Twenty minutes earlier:

“Oh, for Chrissake, if I shag you, will you leave my city?” Ianto said, not bothering to turn around.

John took a seat on the bar stool next to him, grinning around his fifth glass of vodka. One thing the 21st century did right was vodka.

Another was delightful, possessive office boys. John wasn’t sure which impressed him more; Ianto’s offer, or his lay of claim to the entire town of Cardiff, though he did spare a moment to wonder what Jack might think of either one.

It was a very brief moment.

When Ianto reached for his glass, John noticed he didn’t wear a watch. The pale, smooth line of his wrist was oddly suggestive.

“Might do, yeah,” John agreed, setting down his drink. “For a shag and a bit of information.”

That finally made Ianto turn to face him; little frown lines between bright blue eyes, virtue and viciousness. John could have eaten him with a spoon.

“About Jack?”

John held his hands up, palms out, the simple, universal code for _we come in peace_. “Nothing top secret, wouldn’t dream of jeopardizing Nightstick.”

He watched as Ianto stood and tossed a few bills onto the bar. Pulled on his overcoat, and straightened his tie; a business man heading home for dinner after a long day’s work. His cheeks were slashed with pink, alcohol and the vigor of youth.

“You get one question and two hours of my time. I reserve the right to remain armed. You most certainly do not. At the end of the two hours, you leave, and I never see your face, nor any other part of you, in Cardiff again.”

John swallowed another shot of vodka and pretended to think about it.

Then, “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Jones,” he said, with a flash of teeth, but Ianto was already walking toward the door.

Now he’s on his knees in front of John, in a motel room straight out of one of the Red Light Galaxies, sucking John’s dick to the back of his throat as if he’d been trained in a place like that himself.

John’s pants are around his ankles, Ianto is still fully dressed. Other than that, he seems to be rather enjoying it. Or doing an achingly lovely imitation. His eyes are closed; lashes long and thick, like a woman’s.

“Jesus Christ,” John gasps, when Ianto’s tongue snakes out on the down stroke of another balls-deep swallow, “Who taught you how to do that?”

Ianto pulls away, and John bangs the back of his own head against the wall.

“Is that your question?” Ianto asks, swiping a hand over his lips, gone as pink and shiny as his cheeks. Swollen and broken open, sugar candy in a carefully polished jar.

John frowns for a second, then remembers. Shakes his head no.

Ianto’s mouth tastes of cherries when he presses John down on to the lumpy bed.

He uses just enough lube to make it work, just enough to make it sting, and John’s back arches under Ianto’s body, under the warped and yellowed mirror on the ceiling.

It’s rough and simple when Ianto finally slams into him, dick like a fist, and eyes like needles.

John grunts, spreads himself wider to take more. Ianto has the grace to look surprised for half a heartbeat, before shoving all of his weight against John’s chest, burying his cock deep enough inside that John can fucking taste him on his tongue.

And maybe the civilized Ianto Jones is only here because he has a hard on for danger, or maybe behind his closed lids it’s Jack he’s fucking. Hell, maybe he set this whole thing up in order to fuck **with** Jack. John doesn’t ask because he only gets one question, and because he doesn’t particularly care.

He likes the way Ianto sighs when he comes.

They screw three times in the two hours, quicker and dirtier with every go. By the last, John’s face is pressed into the stinking floor and he’s the whore now, ass in the air, inhaling bits of frayed brown carpet every time he tries to laugh. He’s got rings of bruises around his waist. They match the ones round Ianto’s wrists; his long shirtsleeves will come in handy tomorrow, back at the office.

John watches him get dressed.

“They’ll be wanting to change the sheets any time,” Ianto says.

He’s buttoning up his cuffs, and he looks satisfied, almost smug. This boy who dabbles in things he can’t possibly understand looks as if he’s won something.

“I still have my question,” John tells him, kicking off the woolen blankets.

“You have exactly four minutes.”

They dress in silence for two of them, Ianto handing John back his weapons one at a time.

“Did he ever tell you anything about Gray?” John asks, when he finishes tying his boots.

“No. And now we’re done,” Ianto says, opening the door.

John follows him into the dimly lit hall. “Funny. He used to tell me everything back in the day. Went on and on, all the time. About his family. About Gray, especially.”

Ianto stops to look back. “So, this Gray person- must have been very important to Jack, for Jack to talk so much about him.”

“You know blokes and pillow talk,” John says, fiddling with his wrist strap. “Shag a man long enough, he’ll tell you all his most valuable secrets.”

“Funny,” Ianto repeats, “because we’ve been shagging quite a while, Jack and I, and he’s never once mentioned you.”

John’s laughter comes bright and unexpected, lightening in an otherwise empty sky.

“Oh, darling, you are good,” he says.

He grabs Ianto’s face in both hands and kisses him on the forehead, right between those pretty pretty eyes.

Jack always did have impeccable taste.

“Be seeing you soon, Mr. Jones.” John’s smile is wide and lost to the Rift, which swallows him once more like sunshine.

\----

  
iv. Dead Heat (set post Dead Man Walking)  
Ianto/Owen

 _Ianto is on his knees._

Just yesterday, Owen would have found this arrangement a great deal more amusing. Ianto fucking Jones kneeling in front of him, while Owen stands there with his pants around his ankles, talking him through the proper use of steri-stripping.

Now their tableau is just another bad sex joke without a punch line, though at least it’s not one of the girls’ pretty faces by his useless crotch.

“You don’t have to be so damned careful, it’s not like you can hurt me.”

Ianto looks up from where he is meticulously taping the six inch gash in Owen’s thigh back together.

“I am being thorough. There is a difference,” he says, in what Owen thinks of as the Tone of Infinite Patience. It’s the one that makes even Jack nod his head and back away. Of course, it probably helps that Ianto gets on his knees for Jack, too.

It’s kind of funny how being dead hasn’t made Owen any less angry about his life.

Ianto finally finishes, and Owen starts to pull up his jeans. One useless hand still (forever) makes tasks like this one difficult, his zipper catches on the fresh wound in his thigh.

The dressing tears and Owen flinches, waiting for the stab of pain.

He feels nothing.

Ianto ducks when the roll of sterile tape whizzes by his head. Moves to grab Owen by the shoulders when he begins to toss every object inside the Basic First Aide Kit at the brick wall. The box itself collides with a satisfying thump, snaps in half when it hits the floor.

It’s not enough.

He’s an accidental zombie with his worthless dick hanging out of his pants because he can’t even **dress** himself, but what’s really pissing him off right now is the fact that none of this bullshit even **hurts**.

He shrugs Ianto away with a bit more force than necessary. Ianto’s back hits the wall, right above the scuff marks Owen’s temper tantrum has left there.

Ianto just blinks at him.

Then Owen somehow has lost time, because he’s the one on his knees, pulling frantically at Ianto’s zipper with his one good hand.

Ianto doesn’t move to help, but he doesn’t try to stop Owen, either. And when Owen grabs Ianto’s dick in his fist, he finds it already half hard.

Of course. It’s always the quiet ones, Owen thinks.

Ianto must love a first rate grudge-fuck, why else would he be shagging a selfish, infuriating bastard like Captain Jack Harkness?

Even through the blurred red haze of fury (the world is black and white, muted colors and absent sensation, so why can he still see red?) it occurs to Owen that he should maybe ask Ianto if this is all right.

But he’s pretty sure Ianto harbors the secret ability to kill any of them with a paperclip. Wide eyed, soft-spoken, skinny, lying Ianto, who will probably end up Owen’s keeper come tomorrow. It’s not as if Jack can retcon Owen anymore, and Owen can’t actually die, so maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll get to live out his (endless) days in a Weevil cage in Torchwood’s bloody basement, while Ianto Jones feeds him biscuits he can’t eat through a hole in the glass.

“Do you feel it?” Owen asks (hisses), squeezing his fingers around Ianto.

“Yes.” Ianto stands straight backed, face impassive as ever. But there’s a flush above the line of his collar, same color as his pink tie. It’s almost pretty, the symmetry.

“Good,” Owen says as he bends closer, mouth inches away from Ianto’s leaking prick, “because I can’t feel a fucking thing.”

It’s no good at first, too much friction, until Owen holds his fist up to Ianto’s face, and says, “spit.”

Ianto obeys (good office boy) so there’s wet and something like heat, and Owen’s dead muscles have remembered how to walk and talk, and apparently also how to give head.

“Do you feel it?” he says, again and again, tearing his mouth from Ianto’s dick with every upstroke, just to hear the small sound (breath), just to get the small shudder, just to know he’s doing something, affecting someone, just to know he’s really fucking **here**.

He doesn’t notice when he stops saying ‘it’ and starts saying ‘me’, he can’t feel Ianto’s fingers in his hair, he can’t feel Ianto’s prick jerking on his tongue.

But he can see Ianto’s eyes flicker toward the CCTV, and can he hear him moan, soft and low.

And he thinks that maybe, maybe, he can taste the salt.

\----

v. Avant Garde (set current day)  
Ianto/Jack

  
 _Jack is on his knees._

Sometimes it’s like this:

Jack is on his knees on the narrow bed, Ianto behind him. Ianto runs one hand down the fluid arc of Jack’s spine, skip-jump over smooth bones, pebbles beneath clean clean water.

Some miracle of metaphysics unbreaks Jack’s bones each time, unknits his scars, refinishes his skin to perfection. Some miracle of biology and genetics made him so damned beautiful in the first place.

Ianto is in his head again, just staring at flushed and flawless skin, but Jack, Jack is in the moment. It seems unfair how easily such a thing comes to him, considering Jack has an endless supply of moments, spreading out in front of him the way he is spread out before Ianto now. Naked and endless, unknowable despite all that.

There’s a small constellation of freckles between Jack’s shoulder blades. Ianto knows its shape, the number of marks it holds, by heart. He knows the way Jack smells in the mornings, before a shower. He knows the noises Jack makes when he is about to come down Ianto’s throat.

He has no idea if Jack is actually his name.

Ianto’s thumbs fit just so in the dimples right above Jack’s ass. He can press, and Jack will bend that much farther, sink his weight onto his elbows, open himself wide for Ianto’s dick.

Sometimes, if Ianto waits long enough before giving it to him, Jack will beg.

Ianto’s first kiss was from was a girl named Elizabeth. He’d agreed to a trade, her apple for his toffee pudding. She reached across the table in the primary school cafeteria and pressed her lips to his cheek. It happened so quickly, he might have only imagined it. Ianto was eight years old.

His face burned hot for the rest of the school day.

Ianto’s first kiss from a man came as he lie face down in a pool of filthy water. He sputtered back to consciousness, wondering if he’d imagined it. Minutes later, the man killed Ianto’s fiancée. That was over a year ago.

Ianto is still burning.

  
Sometimes it’s like this:

Jack naked and on his knees in front of Ianto, nose pressed against his belly, mouth drooling around his cock. Big hands fit like puzzle pieces into the ridges of Ianto’s hipbones, holding him still.

Silk suit an expensive crumple on the floor, because Jack wants _right here right now say yes Ianto_.

Because Jack wants.

Ianto grabbing handfuls of Jack’s hair, pulling him closer, pushing him back, pulling him close again, there, _Jesus Jack there_.

Laughter around Ianto’s dick, bubbling up his spine in twisting balloons and carnival rides, bright lights and pinwheels dancing at the base of his skull.

Ianto grits his teeth together, grinds bone and skin, but it’s no good. He never lasts long when it’s like this.

He’s falling, helpless, coming and coming, watching Jack’s throat move, trying to swallow it all. Then, when he can’t, licking every bit of Ianto off his own lips, smiling all the while.

Ianto is dizzy and stupid in the face of that dirty smile, Jack shining up at him like stars; unguarded, shameless, forever beautiful.

The taste of himself is always a jolt, aftershocks that snap buzz hum down the backs of his thighs as Jack kisses him hard, presses him harder, face down onto the floor.

Eyes open, legs open, when Jack slides inside, fast, huge and all at once.

Ianto gasps. Every time.

 _Gonna take it?_ Jack’s sex voice in his ear is snakes and honey, it can talk Ianto into

 _Anything, yes more._

 _Good, because I want to give it to you_ Jack says.

He pulls until Ianto is up on his knees.

And then he does.

  
-End


End file.
